Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado (Spanish Edition) (19 page)
Read Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado (Spanish Edition) Online
Authors: Antonio Machado
Ya en los campos de Jaén,
amanece. Corre el tren
por sus brillantes rieles,
devorando matorrales,
alcaceles,
terraplenes, pedregales,
olivares, caseríos,
praderas y cardizales,
montes y valles sombríos.
Tras la turbia ventanilla,
pasa la devanadera
del campo de primavera.
La luz en el techo brilla
de mi vagón de tercera.
Entre nubarrones blancos,
oro y grana;
la niebla de la mañana
huyendo por los barrancos.
¡Este insomne sueño mío!
¡Este frío
de un amanecer en vela!...
Resonante,
jadeante,
marcha el tren. El campo vuela.
Enfrente de mí, un señor
sobre su manta dormido;
un fraile y un cazador
—el perro a sus pies tendido—.
Yo contemplo mi equipaje,
mi viejo saco de cuero;
y recuerdo otro viaje
hacia las tierras del Duero.
Otro viaje de ayer
por la tierra castellana
—¡pinos del amanecer
entre Almazán y Quintana!—
¡Y alegría
de un viajar en compañía!
¡Y la unión
que ha roto la muerte un día!
¡Mano fría
que aprietas mi corazón!
Tren, camina, silba, humea,
acarrea
tu ejército de vagones,
ajetrea
maletas y corazones.
Soledad,
sequedad.
Tan pobre me estoy quedando
que ya ni siquiera estoy
conmigo, ni sé si voy
conmigo a solas viajando.
Already in the fields of Jaén
it is dawning. The train
races on its brilliant rails,
devouring the trails
of thickets, barley, rock piles,
ramparts, and files
of olive groves and settlements,
meadows of thistle plants,
forests and darkening valleys.
Behind the blurry windowpanes
the rolling planes
of fields coming into spring.
The light is shining
on the roof of my third-class car.
Amid white storm-clouds, plains
of gold and grain.
The morning mist
fleeing through gorge and precipice.
My sleepless dream!
This cold and first gleam
of a watchful dawn!
Booming,
panting,
the train races on its way.
The fields fly away.
In front of me a man
asleep on his blanket;
a monk, and a hunter with his dog
stretched out by his legs.
I contemplate my luggage,
this old leather grip,
and I recall another trip
where the Duero flows between the crags
and cliffs. I slip
into yesterday
through Castilian lands—
pine trees of daybreak
between Almazón and Quintana!
What joy
to go someplace in company!
And that union
that death broke one day!
A cold hand
squeezes my heart!
Train, go on, whistle, smoke,
confront
your army of cars,
knock about
suitcases and hearts.
Loneliness,
barrenness.
I end up feeling so poor
that now I am not even
with myself, or know if I go
with myself, traveling alone.
Meditaciones rurales
Heme aquí ya, profesor
de lenguas vivas (ayer
maestro de gay-saber,
aprendiz de ruiseñor),
en un pueblo húmedo y frío,
destartalado y sombrío,
entre andaluz y manchego.
Invierno. Cerca del fuego.
Fuera llueve un agua fina,
que ora se trueca en neblina,
ora se torna aguanieve.
Fantástico labrador,
pienso en los campos. ¡Señor
qué bien haces! Llueve, llueve
tu agua constante y menuda
sobre alcaceles y habares,
tu agua muda,
en viñedos y olivares.
Te bendecirán conmigo
los sembradores del trigo;
los que viven de coger
la aceituna;
los que esperan la fortuna
de comer;
los que hogaño,
como antaño,
tienen toda su moneda
en la rueda,
traidora rueda del año.
¡Llueve, llueve; tu neblina
que se torne en aguanieve,
y otra vez en agua fina!
¡Llueve, Señor, llueve, llueve!
En mi estancia, iluminada
por esta luz invernal
—la tarde gris tamizada
por la lluvia y el cristal—,
sueño y medito.
Clarea
el reloj arrinconado,
y su tic-tic, olvidado
por repetido, golpea.
Tic-tic, tic-tic... Ya te he oído.
Tic-tic, tic-tic... Siempre igual,
monótono y aburrido.
Tic-tic, tic-tic, el latido
de un corazón de metal.
En estos pueblos, ¿se escucha
el latir del tiempo? No.
En estos pueblos se lucha
sin tregua con el reló,
con esa monotonía
que mide un tiempo vacío.
Pero ¿tu hora es la mía?
¿Tu tiempo, reloj, el mío?
(Tic-tic, tic-tic.) Era un día
(Tic-tic, tic-tic) que pasó,
y lo que yo más quería
la muerte se lo llevó.
Lejos suena un clamoreo
de campanas...
Arrecia el repiqueteo
de la lluvia en las ventanas.
Fantástico labrador,
vuelvo a mis campos. ¡Señor,
cuánto te bendecirán
los sembradores del pan!
Señor, ¿no es tu lluvia ley,
en los campos que ara el buey,
y en los palacios del rey?
¡Oh, agua buena, deja vida
en tu huida!
¡Oh, tú, que vas gota a gota,
fuente a fuente y río a río,
como este tiempo de hastío
corriendo a la mar remota,
en cuanto quiere nacer,
cuanto espera
florecer
al sol de la primavera,
sé piadosa,
que mañana
serás espiga temprana,
prado verde, carne rosa,
y más: razón y locura
y amargura
de querer y no poder
creer, creer y creer!
Anochece;
el hilo de la bombilla
se enrojece,
luego brilla,
resplandece
poco más que una cerilla.
Dios sabe dónde andarán
mis gafas... entre librotes.
revistas y papelotes,
¿quién las encuentra?... Aquí están.
Libros nuevos. Abro uno
de Unamuno.
¡Oh, el dilecto,
predilecto
de esta España que se agita,
porque nace o resucita!
Siempre te ha sido, ¡oh Rector
de Salamanca!, leal
este humilde profesor
de un instituto rural.
Esa tu filosofía
que llamas diletantesca,
voltaria y funambulesca,
gran don Miguel, es la mía.
Agua del buen manantial,
siempre viva,
fugitiva;
poesía, cosa cordial.
¿Constructora?
—No hay cimiento
ni en el alma ni en el viento—.
Bogadora,
marinera,
hacia la mar sin ribera.
Enrique Bergson:
Los datos
inmediatos
de la conciencia.
¿Esto es
otro embeleco francés?
Este Bergson es un tuno;
¿verdad, maestro Unamuno?
Bergson no da como aquel
Immanuel
el volatín inmortal;
este endiablado judío
ha hallado el libre albedrío
dentro de su mechinal.
No está mal;
cada sabio, su problema,
y cada loco, su tema.
Algo importa
que en la vida mala y corta
que llevamos
libres o siervos seamos:
mas, si vamos
a la mar,
lo mismo nos ha de dar.
¡Oh, estos pueblos! Reflexiones,
lecturas y acotaciones
pronto dan en lo que son:
bostezos de Salomón.
¿Todo es
soledad de soledades.
vanidad de vanidades,
que dijo el Eclesiastés?
Mi paraguas, mi sombrero,
mi gabán... El aguacero
amaina... Vamonos, pues.
Es de noche. Se platica
al fondo de una botica.
—Yo no sé
don José,
cómo son los liberales
tan perros, tan inmorales.
—¡Oh, tranquilícese usté!
Pasados los carnavales,
vendrán los conservadores,
buenos administradores
de su casa.
Todo llega y todo pasa.
Nada eterno:
ni gobierno
que perdure,
ni mal que cien años dure.
—Tras estos tiempos vendrán
otros tiempos y otros y otros,
y lo mismo que nosotros
otros se jorobarán.
Así es la vida, don Juan.
—Es verdad, así es la vida.
—La cebada está crecida.
—Con estas lluvias...
Y van
las habas que es un primor.
—Cierto; para marzo, en flor.
Pero la escarcha, los hielos...
—Y, además, los olivares
están pidiendo a los cielos
aguas a torrentes.
—A mares.
¡Las fatigas, los sudores
que pasan los labradores!
En otro tiempo...
Llovía
también cuando Dios quería.
—Hasta mañana, señores.
Tic-tic, tic-tic... Ya pasó
un día como otro día,
dice la monotonía
del reloj.
Sobre mi mesa
Los datos de
la conciencia,
inmediatos.
No está mal
este yo fundamental,
contingente y libre, a ratos,
creativo, original;
este yo que vive y siente
dentro la carne mortal
¡ay! por saltar impaciente
las bardas de su corral.
Baeza, 1913
Rural Meditations
So here we have a teacher
of modern tongues—yesterday
a master of troubadour song—
the nightingale’s apprentice
in a damp and cold village
run-down and somber,
Andalusian and Manchegan.
Winter. Near the fire.
Outside it’s raining a fine drizzle,
now twisting into mist,
now becoming slush.
An imaginary farmer,
I think of the fields. Lord,
how well you do! It’s raining, raining
your constant and tiny water
over the barley and beans,
your mute water
in vineyards and olive groves.
The sowers of wheat
will bless you with me,
those who live for picking
the olive from the tree,
those who hope
for the chance to eat,
those who this year
like last year
bet all their money
on the wheel,
treacherous wheel of the year.
It’s raining, raining; your mist
turns into slush,
and once again fine drizzle!
Raining, Lord, raining, raining!
In my room illumined
with winter light
—a gray afternoon siphoned
through rain and window glass—
I dream and meditate.
The clock
in the corner brightens
and its ticktock, forgotten
through repetition, is pounding.
Ticktock, ticktock. Now I’ve heard you.
Ticktock, ticktock. Always the same
monotonous and boring.
Ticktock, ticktock, the beating
of a metal heart.
In these villages can one hear
the beating of time? No.
In these villages you fight
endlessly with the clock
and with that monotony
measuring empty time.
But is your time mine?
Watch, is your time mine?
Ticktock, ticktock. On a day
(ticktock, ticktock) gone,
and what I most loved
death took away.
Far off a clamoring
of bells...
The rain drums harder
on the windowpanes.
An imaginary farmer
I return to fields. Lord,
how those who sow wheat
will bless your bounty!
Lord, isn’t your rain law
in the fields the ox plows,
and in the palaces of kings?
O good water, leave life
behind as you escape!
O you who flow drop by drop,
spring by spring and river by river,
like this season of tedium,
flowing to a remote sea
for all who seek birth,
who hope
for blossoming
in the spring sun,
be merciful
so tomorrow
you will be an early sprig,
a green meadow, rosy flesh,
and more: reason and madness
and the bitterness
of wanting and not being able
to believe, believe and believe!
Night is taking over.
the wire in the light bulb
is getting red,
then glows,
bursts into brilliance
slightly more than a match.
God knows where my glasses
are. Someplace among these tomes,
magazines and scribbles.
Who can find them? Here they are.
New books. I open one
by Unamuno.
Oh, the light
and delight
of this Spain now stirring,
born or coming alive!
This humble teacher
in a country school
has always kept your faith,
rector of Salamanca!
Your philosophy
which you call dilettante,
flighty, walking a tightrope,
grand don Miguel, is mine.
Water of a good spring,
always lively,
evasive:
poetry, a cordial thing.
Structural?
—There is no cement
in the soul or wind—.
Rower,
sailor,
toward the shoreless sea.
Henri Bergson.
Les données
immédiates de la conscience
.
28
Is this Bergson a truant?
Another French fraud,
maestro Unamuno?
Bergson doesn’t perform
an immortal handspring
like Immanuel.
29
This devilish Jew
30
has found free will
inside his columbarium.
Not bad.
Every sage has his problem,
every idiot his theme.
In this bad and short life
it matters
whether we are free or slaves,
but if we are heading
for the sea,
it’s all the same.
O these villages! Reflections,
readings and jottings
will all end up
as Solomon’s yawns.
Isn’t everything
solitude of solitudes,
vanity of vanities,
as Ecclesiastes said.
My umbrella, my hat,
my raincoat. The downpour
is letting up. So let’s go.
It is night. People
are chatting in the back of a shop.
“I don’t know,
don José,
31
what makes the liberals
such immoral swine.”
“Oh, shut up!
When the carnival is over
the conservatives, who are good
administrators of their house,
will come in.
Everything comes and goes.
Nothing is eternal.
No government
is made of concrete,
no trouble lasts forever.”
“After these times come
other times and others and others
exactly like us
and others talking nonsense.
Such is life, don Juan.”
“It’s true, such is life.”
“The barley looks good.”
“With these rains...
And the beans
are splendid.”
“Right, by March they’ll be in bloom.
But frost, hail...”
“And besides, the olive patches
are begging the sky for a ton
of water.”
“A flood.
The work and sweat
a farmer goes through!
In the old days...
“It rained
also when God felt like it.”
“So long, gentlemen.”
Ticktock, ticktock. So another day
like any other has gone by,
telling me the monotony
of my watch.
On my table
Les données
de la conscience.
Immediate.
32
It’s not bad
this fundamental
I, sometimes contingent, sometimes free,
creative, original.
This I who lives and feels
inside the mortal flesh,
oh! and yet needs to jump impatient
over the fence of his corral!
Baeza, 1913
28
The reference is to
Essai sur les donnée immédiates de conscience
(
An Essay onthe Immediate Data of Consciousness
), an 1889 book by Henri Bergson.
29
Immanuel Kant.
30
Henri Bergson (1859-1941), French philosopher, awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, 1927. Antonio Machado attended a course with Bergson at the Collège de France in 1911. Machado’s philosophical foundation, concerning time, duration, being, come from Bergson, his preferred philosopher. Marcel Proust (Bergson’s cousin by marriage) made use of Bergsonian notions of time and duration in
Remembrance of Things Past,
as did Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, and a generation of other writers. The poem ends as a paean to Bergson’s metaphysics. It is regrettable that Machado, too, fell into the linguistic and religious tradition of crass anti-Semitism, which is routine in writers such as Quevedo, Donne, Baudelaire, and in our times, in Pound, Yeats, and Eliot. Bergson, as a philosopher, found himself in essential sympathy with the Catholic mystics and would have converted had it not been for his loyalty to the plight of Jews in his later life. He asked to be buried in the Jewish cemetery, with Catholic rites. The
Britannica
cites his will: “He acknowledged in his will of 1937, ‘My reflections have led me closer and closer to Catholicism, in which I see the complete fulfillment of Judaism.’” Yet, although he declared his “moral adherence to Catholicism,” he never went beyond that. In explanation, he wrote: “I would have become a convert, had I not foreseen for years a formidable wave of anti-Semitism about to break upon the world. I wanted to remain among those who tomorrow were to be persecuted.” At other moments, Machado cites the medieval Spanish rabbi Sem Tob (Shem Tov), whose poems he especially admired and praises in his poems and who was a model for his own series of brief aphoristic wisdom poems.
31
The Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset (1883–1955).
32
“The immediate data of consciousness.” It is fitting that the poem ends with a reference again to Machado’s preferred philosopher Bergson, who in great part turned him to philosophy at an early age, and who was the most influential on his own thinking and work. Apart from his concern with time and duration, Bergson gave a special place to intuition, as in mathematics and the arts, which he called
“élan vital”
(“the creative impulse” or “living energy), and which he developed in
Creative Evolution
(1907). “The fundamental I” is developed in Bergson’s
Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousnes,
whose subtitle is “Time and Free Will.”
